Quotes About Emotion

Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact.

She was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve.

His heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and he put out his hand and laid his fingers on her knee. "You shouldn't cry," he said softly. But then she put her hands over her face and felt that really her heart was broken and nothing mattered anymore.

Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.

She was grieved, and bitterly sorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of hearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, when all her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have slaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would have taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside her she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her most of all, this failure to love him.

Why do I like this so? Always something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate dazzled looks of hers. Why do you? he asked. I don't know - it seems so true.

Then her eyes blazed naken in a kind of ecstasy, that frightened him.

He gazed at the book in his hand, did not see it for some moments, thinking of her, then saw it again.

Don't talk any more, she pleaded softly, laying her hand on his forehead. He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewhere discarded. Why not - are you tired? Yes, and it wears you out. He laughed shortly, realising. Yet you always make me like it, he said.

Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose.

She saw him slender and firm, as if the setting sun had given him to her. A deep pain took hold of her, and she knew she must love him.

Paul, walking alongside, laced his fingers in the strings of the bag Miriam was carrying... the meadow was bathed in a glory of sunshine, and the path was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her any sign. She held her fingers very still among the strings of the bag, his fingers touching.

She saw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it.

How she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of living things.

Do you think one can only care once?' she asked. 'Or never. Most women never care, never begin to. They don't know what it means. Nor men either. But when I see a woman as cares, my heart stands still for her.

Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes too were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her.

Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, turing the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to her something cruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the bread out of the. tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentle in his movements, she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was, she was hurt.

She was slightly afraid—deeply moved and religious. That was her best state. He was impotent against it.

Isn't it beautiful? she pleaded. But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.

For him, it was not yet quite natural to express himself in speech. Gesture and grimace were instantaneous, and spoke worlds of things, if you would but accept them.

Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.

I've brought thee a sup o' tea, lass, he said. Well you needn't, for you know I don't like it, she replied. Drink it up, it'll pop thee off to sleep again. She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it. I'll back my life there's no sugar in, she said. Yi - there's one big un, he replied, injured. It's a wonder, she said sipping again. She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble at him in this manner.

Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wanted him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any signs.

There is love, and it is a deep thing, but there are deeper things than love. — D.H. Lawrence